


Elysium: Prologue - A History Written in Passion and Blood

by Elysium-fic (RCD_Anon)



Series: Elysium [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, F/M, Het and Slash, M/M, Multi, Other, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Snuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-01
Updated: 2010-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:44:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RCD_Anon/pseuds/Elysium-fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse into the history of the Cousland family. Bryce Cousland comes to manhood during a war of rebellion and discovers a taste for the exotic. Lovers, allies, and enemies appear in unlikely places.</p><p><b>Acknowledgment:</b> Thanks to my lovely betas, <a href="http://twist-shimmy.dreamwidth.org">twist_shimmy</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrose/pseuds/darkrose">darkrose</a> for giving me the feedback that led to the idea to take what was going to be a lengthy piece of exposition in the first chapter and make a prologue of it instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elysium: Prologue - A History Written in Passion and Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually the prologue for a chaptered fic called _Elysium_. It is being posted as a separate story in a series instead of a chapter within the main fic because AO3 doesn't give you the option of number the chapters Prologue, Chapter One, Two, etc.
> 
> For more information about Elysium and the story from which it evolved, please see [the extended author's notes at my DreamWidth Journal.](http://elysium-fic.dreamwidth.org/17320.html?#cutid1)

**8:93 Blessed — A Friendship is Made**

"Bryce? Where are you off to in such a rush this morning?"

Lord Bryce Cousland, the fifteen year old heir to the teyrnir of Highever, turned to face his father, the crust on the half-loaf of bread he'd grabbed to take with him crackling slightly under the sudden tension in his hand.

"The smithy, Father," the young nobleman answered, trying to force himself to remain expressionless under his father's keen and perpetually disapproving eyes.

"Is this about the lad you met there a few days ago? What's his name, Donald?"

"Duncan, ser. Yes. I promised I'd meet him there. He's working for the blacksmith to pay for a pair of daggers that he's having crafted for himself. He took me to the swordsmith's workshop yesterday to show me the plans."

There. That was sure to be a perfectly acceptable excuse for a boy his age to be allowed his freedom. Teyrn Devan Cousland was never so happy as when Bryce waxed enthusiastic about martial matters.

The teyrn's gaze was sharp and intent as Bryce shifted restlessly from one foot to the other, as though he suspected it was the half-Rivaini boy himself, rather than the daggers, which was the object of his son's fascination. They had come to the Free Marches following rumors that some of the lords who ruled here would lease their troops as mercenaries, for the right price. Teyrn Cousland was a patriot who was discreetly rallying troops under the banner of Queen Moira, intent on driving out Meghren the Usurper and the Orlesian occupiers. With Highever being a port city, it was conveniently situated to receive mercenary troops from across the Waking Sea and so the task had fallen to Teyrn Devan to travel to the Free Marches and investigate the possibility of hiring reinforcements.

Bryce, too, felt the fire of rebellion burning in his heart and wished to see his homeland free of the Orlesians' yoke. But he disagreed—insomuch as he was allowed by his father to have an opinion at all, much less give voice to it—that hiring foreign mercenaries was the way to achieve Ferelden's independence. Thus, he'd been exceptionally uninterested in the teyrn's negotiations here with the local warlord, despite his father's insistence that it was an opportunity to learn the art of diplomacy. Three days ago, Devan had finally grown embarrassed enough by his son's fidgeting during what was supposed to be a solemn negotiation that he'd given Bryce his liberty to wander the small coastal town of Oatwick rather than attend any further meetings.

It had been that afternoon that he'd met Duncan, drawn to the sound of an unfamiliar voice speaking the Fereldan tongue. He'd found the dark-skinned youth outside the smithy, shoeing a horse and talking soothingly to the mount as he inspected its hooves. Lonely for a companion close to his own age, the teyrn's son had struck up a conversation.

Duncan had just turned seventeen. He'd been trained to arms by his Fereldan father before his parents died, and he had aspirations of traveling to Orlais and becoming one of the famed chevaliers. Affronted, Bryce had challenged him on this, asking why he would not come to Ferelden instead and earn his spurs fighting for the rebellion. But Duncan had never been to Ferelden. His father, the son of a dispossessed freeholder, had not instilled in him any great loyalty for the nation of his birth. The rebellion was a distant and abstract thing to Duncan, and possibly a hopeless cause. Fighting in the Grand Tourney in Val Royeaux was a surer path to knighthood.

Frustrated and yet intrigued by the ambitious commoner, Bryce had stitched himself to Duncan's side, determined to change his mind and win his support for the Fereldan rebellion. Once his work in the smithy was finished for the day, Duncan had shown Bryce around Oatwick, taking him to the tavern where Bryce casually and unthinkingly paid for the ale and stew they ate for dinner. He showed Bryce places and things which would only be of interest to young men their age. Over the course of the day, Bryce had ceased his harangue about Duncan joining the rebellion and an unlikely friendship had been born.

Friendship... and something more. But Bryce's father didn't need to know that.

Teyrn Devan was still looking at him sharply and Bryce swallowed, afraid his father would deny permission for his outing. Instead the teyrn nodded once, brusquely. Unable to suppress his smile of relief, Bryce gave his father a polite bow and turned to leave, only to be halted by the teyrn's voice.

"Make your farewells to your friend today, son. Tomorrow we journey onward to Kirkwall and will not be back."

"Yes, Father." Maker, it was hard to speak around the sudden tightness in his throat. He'd thought he'd have several days more, at least, before the teyrn concluded his negotiations. Subdued, Bryce made he way out of the warlord's keep and across the drawbridge, taking the hard-packed dirt road into the village.

He found his friend at work in the smithy, shirtless and already perspiring in the heat. Even now, in the breakfast hour, it bode fair to be a sweltering Solace day, the humidity mounting as a haze of clouds hovered in the sky above. Bryce felt a thrill at the sight of that dark-skinned, lean chest. Working in the smithy had given the half-Rivaini boy a defined musculature and breadth of shoulder that Bryce despaired of ever possessing himself, for he had not yet begun to fill out in such a way.

Bryce recalled their second day together here in Oatwick, when the midday heat had driven them to a swimming hole in a pasture far outside town. Bryce hadn't been swimming since he was a child, for his father considered stripping to his skin and splashing in a pond with other boys to be an activity unfit for the heir to Highever. The excursion had been filled with a marvelous sense of the forbidden.

The heat had eventually driven the other boys who had come to the pond away, seeking home or shade for relief from the relentless sun, until only Bryce and Duncan remained. Bryce felt his fair skin burning, but it didn't matter; he was having far too much fun. But at length, hunger compelled them to leave the water and dress that they might go in search of dinner. It was then that Bryce first found himself aware of the definition of the muscles in his new friend’s shoulders. It wasn't the first time Bryce had found himself fascinated with looking at another boy—though it was not nearly as keen as his interest in watching girls—but it was the first time he'd ever felt such a powerful compulsion to _touch_.

He'd reached out without thinking, to touch that shoulder, to trace the ridge of that muscle that intrigued him so. Duncan's head had snapped around to stare at Bryce at the contact, his dark eyes wary but astonishingly unsurprised. Bryce felt tension stirring in his groin, and then Duncan leaned forward and kissed him.

The afternoons that had followed had been spent seeking secluded spots in which to carry out an acquaintance of an entirely different sort than Bryce had imagined when he first encountered Duncan. He'd familiarized himself with his friend by touch and taste, spent himself on his own belly as they had rubbed against one another, taken Duncan into his mouth and felt the salty rush of his release upon his tongue. It was a time of learning and experimenting as they both began to discover pleasure with one another.

Duncan's confidence had taken Bryce by surprise. The common-born boy had been on his own long enough to have lost some of his naïveté about such matters, though he confessed he'd only ever witnessed them being done, and had never before participated, at least not with another male. Bryce was not nearly so assured, at least at the beginning, but by the time they'd been together several days, his confidence was getting stronger, and he felt freer to pursue his whims and make requests of his friend. They did not couple; Duncan said he knew how, in theory, two men did such a thing, but neither of them thought it sounded anything other than painful. But the moment Duncan's lips had closed around Bryce's erection and received his release had been a pleasure beyond anything the lad had ever imagined.

Now, staring at his friend as Duncan worked, Bryce felt that tightness in his throat once more. After today, they would never see each other again.

"Hurry," Bryce urged impatiently.

Duncan turned an amused glance upon him, his dark eyes dancing with mischief and humor. "Some of us actually have to work for a living, _my lord_ ," he teased, and Bryce smiled, knowing there was no resentment in it.

His smile quickly fled, however. "Father says we leave tomorrow for Kirkwall."

Duncan didn't look at him, but there was a certain tension in his shoulders and smooth jaw as he worked. "Will you be coming back?"

"No," Bryce said, swallowing with difficulty. "We sail back to Highever directly from Kirkwall. Come with us. Join the rebellion. Be a knight of Highever."

Duncan gave a bitter laugh and shook his head. "And how shall I ever know if I've earned my knighthood, or if it was a gift from the teyrn's son to his lover?"

Lover. The word brought Bryce up short, his eyes widening. Was that what they had become?

He wanted to argue with Duncan's point and found he couldn't. Even just a few days of knowing him had taught Bryce that his friend— _lover_ —was fiercely proud and independent. Also stubborn, puckish, and despite that sense of pride, he had a roguish flexibility to his ethics that frustrated Bryce's world of absolutes defined by his father.

"I'll miss you," Bryce found himself saying softly, plaintively.

Duncan stopped and threw his hammer and tongs aside. A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance as he looked at Bryce with eyes hot with desire. Duncan grabbed Bryce's hand and all but dragged him to the stables and up into the hayloft, where they spent the afternoon sheltered from the summer storm that raged outside.

It was almost night before the rain relented enough that Bryce could return to the keep, his clothing rumpled and his eyelids heavy with sated passion. He went directly to the guest chambers that had been assigned to the teyrn and his son, to bathe and change his clothing, only to find his father waiting for him with a tense, disapproving expression.

He didn't need to be told that Teyrn Devan had somehow found out what he and Duncan had been up to. Bryce straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, preparing for his father's wrath.

Strangely, it was not forthcoming, at least not in the form he had expected.

"Is it your will that we should drive out the Orlesians, son?" the teyrn asked, his voice tight and angry, but not raging.

"You know it is, my lord," Bryce answered in confusion.

"Have you no understanding what you might have done to our cause, then, today?" his father demanded, rising from his chair. "If _we_ , two of Ferelden's highest nobles, who have come here seeking aid in the Free Marches, were to become known for being... _eccentric_... it could be disastrous. We are not Orlesians, to flaunt such matters merely to see who can be the most outrageous, and here in the Free Marches people are even more provincial. What you have done could cost us the aid we've come here for!"

"Why should it matter?" Bryce demanded defensively. "It has no bearing on our ability to pay for the loan of their troops, nor our ability to command them effectively. Why, then, should they care what the teyrn's son gets up to?"

"It matters, son," Teyrn Devan said, shaking his head. "In politics, perception is everything. If the future teyrn of Highever becomes perceived as being excessive in his indulgences, he loses the trust of those who look to follow him. Our bannorn and freeholders may stop trusting us and transfer their allegiance and their troops to Amaranthine, where Tarleton Howe toadies to the Orlesians. If the warlords of the city-states here in the Free Marches mistrust you, they will not contract their mercenary forces to fight with us."

Bryce stood silent, stunned and ashamed. He hadn't meant to hurt his father's cause, though he had misgivings about hiring mercenaries for the rebellion. It had never occurred to him that his dalliance here in the Free Marches might have any political ramifications at all.

The teyrn sighed and laid a hand on Bryce's shoulder. "Son, I've no doubt you're a good lad. You'll do your duty. You'll lead our people. You'll marry and produce an heir for Highever in due course. And we're Fereldans; for the most part we consider these matters private, and no one's business. But discretion is the key. If you flaunt your indulgences with men—or even with women, for that matter, though womanizing doesn't raise nearly so many eyebrows—you're no better than those decadent Orlesians in the eyes of our people."

Bryce nodded solemnly. "I understand, my lord."

"Good," his father said decisively. "Then we won't speak of this again. I trust you'll conduct yourself with more care in the future, that word won't spread of your activities and tarnish our name."

"Yes, ser."

"Then go wash up, son. It's almost the supper hour."

Alone in his chamber, Bryce looked at himself a long moment in the polished silver mirror, and saw in his bright blue eyes for the first time not a restless boy at odds with everything around him, but the man he would become, more knowledgeable and adult than he had been only days before. The hunger that had awoken when he first touched Duncan still burned inside him, but it was tempered now by a new wisdom. He could sate that hunger, but carefully, discreetly, as befitted a man of his station.

He would never be so careless again.  


* * *

  
 **9:01 Dragon — A Bargain is Struck**

Eleanor Mac Dougal looked up from the book of Navarran poetry she was reading at the rap upon her chamber door. At her call, one of the elven servants who cleaned the chambers and ran errands for the clientele of _La Caja de las Rosas_ opened the door but did not enter.

" _Excusame, señorita,_ " he said with a bow. "The _doña_ asks that you attend her. You have _un cliente_."

"At this time of day?" Eleanor asked, her brows lifting in surprise, but the boy merely bowed again and left as Eleanor set her book aside and rose from her chaise. She checked her appearance in a polished brass mirror, pushing back her waving chestnut locks to reveal deep green eyes, and pinching her cheeks for color. Had it been later in the day, she'd have been appropriately rouged and kohled and ready to receive the evening's clientele, but it was barely afternoon yet. Any _patrón_ calling on the brothel this early in the day could take her barefaced and uncoiffed, if his need was so very urgent.

At the very least, she thought with a sigh, it would be a slight change of pace from the normal tedious predictability of her days in _La Caja_.

She loosened the sash wrapping her dressing gown so that it hung artfully off one of her shoulders and walked on delicate satin slippers to the parlor, where the _doña_ sat chatting with a handsome young man who spoke faltering Antivan with an atrocious accent.

Her eyebrows lifted again at the familiarity of that accent.

"Ah, and this is she!" the proprietress effused, rising. "Our fair Eleanor. She is lovely, yes?"

"And trained as a courtesan, you say?" the Fereldan man looked skeptical.

"By one of the finest ever to practice that noble art, señor," the _doña_ vowed.

"Very well," the man nodded. "If I'm satisfied, I'll be contracting her for the entirety of my stay here in Antiva City. I cannot abide a companion with whom I can't have a conversation."

Eleanor blinked. He wanted to... converse?

"This way, ser," she murmured, gesturing toward the door leading from the salon to the pleasure chambers. Strange, how odd it felt to speak her native tongue after all these years.

At nineteen years old, Eleanor should have been at the peak of her career as a courtesan. She did not stint to perform the graces she had learned in preparation for that career as she catered to the wealthy merchants who wanted a taste of a woman trained to please nobility. She knew the exact way to pace herself as she walked before him so that it allowed her to steer him to the chamber without making him feel as though he were being led about. She knew how to open the door for him in such a way as to make him feel welcomed by a lover, rather than admitted by a servant. There was, after all, a fine line between deference and subservience. The nobility were used to subservience; part of the courtesan's mystique was that she did not bow and scrape like other commoners, but interacted with them as near-equals. Most of these minor flourishes were lost upon her clientele, but she persisted as yet another way of combating the monotony of subjecting herself to one fumbling man after another, night after night.

She hadn't expected to ever find an actual Fereldan nobleman in the salon seeking to hire her services. She wondered if he perceived those small graces and appreciated them.

"May I offer you some refreshment?" Eleanor asked sweetly when the door had closed behind her.

"Have you any of that lovely port the proprietress served me in the parlor?" he asked.

Eleanor smiled softly and gave a gracious nod of assent, crossing to a sideboard where she poured two glasses of wine, though she filled hers considerably less. It would not do to start the day drunk, after all. Some of the whores did, of course. Each of them coped in her own way.

"You're _actually_ Fereldan, not merely an Antivan woman fluent in the Fereldan tongue," he observed once he'd taken a long draught of the fine red wine.

"I am," Eleanor said calmly, reclining upon a chaise and sipping her own wine. "What is your pleasure to be, ser?"

"I scarcely know," he answered with a wry twist to his lips. "I've heard of these famed Antivan courtesans, but not being of Antivan nobility, I have no hope of acquiring the company of one. They're rather selective, or so I'm given to understand."

Eleanor's lips twisted in a bitter smile before she could help herself. Yes, she understood that all too well. "It is true. I was myself not permitted among their ranks because it became clear I would not grow out of my harsh Fereldan accent, at least not until long after I was too old to be a successful courtesan."

"Really?" the Fereldan man's own eyebrows lifted. "As beautiful and gracious as you are, rejected over such a minor thing?"

"It's not so minor among the nobility the courtesans serve," she shrugged. "Courtesans are, after all, famed for their learning and eloquence. They are meant to be not merely entertaining bedmates but also scintillating companions outside the bedchamber. They're meant to recite poetry and discuss politics. An unattractive accent would... lessen the appeal of such a companion."

"Discuss politics? Truly?"

"Oh, yes. Perhaps that most of all. Courtesans, you see, are the ultimate ambassadors. If they favor a patron, they might drop a good word about him into the ear of another and pave the way toward an advantageous alliance. Nobles can rise and fall in influence at the word of the courtesans. It’s all done most subtly, of course. The nobility would fear the courtesans if they knew they wielded such power."

"I see," he said, draining his goblet and setting it aside. "Their loss is my gain in this instance, I suppose. Though I wonder if the Antivan nobility have any idea just what a treasure they're missing."

Eleanor glanced away and emptied her own goblet faster than she had intended. "You've paid for my time, ser. Flattery is hardly necessary."

To her surprise, the Fereldan laughed, a merry, boisterous sound that startled her. "An acerbic courtesan?" he hooted. "Aren't you supposed to be all sweet and charming?"

"Trenchancy can be its own form of charm, ser."

"Mm, and well I know it," he practically purred.

She met his gaze again, with far more care this time, assessing him. "That brings us back to my original question. What is your pleasure?"

"Perhaps I simply wish to talk. Flesh is cheap, after all, especially here in Antiva where you can't empty a chamberpot without splashing a brothel. Enlightened—not to mention _biting_ —conversation in one's own language in a foreign land is much harder to come by."

She shrugged, her dressing gown falling further off her shoulder, revealing the upper slope of her breast. "It's your coin."

The Fereldan's eyes riveted to that expanse of newly-exposed skin, and Eleanor concealed a smirk. Conversation was most definitely not his only desire.

"Then again, what other skills do you boast?" he asked, the pitch of his voice dropping low.

"There are few I don't," she answered frankly.

"Is it true Antivan courtesans never feign passion? That your response is always genuine?"

Eleanor closed her eyes, trying not to let her dismay show. Blast it, that he had come across that particular bit of knowledge. She'd tried, in her first few weeks at _La Caja de las Rosas,_ to use those skills she'd been taught so well. She'd tried to find in each man she serviced something of appeal, something to arouse her. It had been maddening, for some of them were truly vulgar and revolting, the kind of men no true courtesan would ever deign to acknowledge, much less bed. Maddening to work her body into the delicious tension of arousal only to go unfulfilled as the fat, sweaty merchants pumped and labored over her to satisfy their own desires, but neglected hers. Worse still to do it several times a night with each new _cliente_.

She'd given up, finding it only heightened her despair at having been brought to this end. Now she took them unthinkingly, with as little care for her own pleasure as the back alley strumpets who were—if the truth be told—now her sisters. For those who seemed to want her response, she affected the illusion of pleasure, but never more than that. Few were skilled enough to know the difference, much less to go about seeking the real thing.

"It is... a skill we learn," she said carefully. She did not offer to demonstrate it for him.

But then, she didn't need to.

"Show me," the Fereldan commanded softly, his eyes darkening with passion.

Eleanor narrowly avoided smiling in relief. If he was going to fuck her, it would still be easy to pretend. He'd never be able to prove otherwise. "As you wish, ser. How would you like to have me?"

"No. _Show me_. Pleasure yourself; I shall watch."

Her eyes widened at that. It wasn't the first time she'd serviced a man with a penchant for observing, but she suspected this Fereldan would be paying much closer attention.

Maker's blood. If she did as he'd asked, she'd re-open a carefully shut and locked door to something she needed to leave in her past if she hoped to survive here in the brothel with her sanity intact. But if she pleased him, he'd promised to contract her for the duration of his stay. That might be days, weeks, perhaps even months. All that time not having to endure any man with the coin to pay her fee, no matter how repulsive he might be, much less having to endure several of them a night.

She would do it, she decided, drawing a deep breath. Even if he was only in Antiva City a few days, anything to escape the tedium and degradation of being a common whore for a while.

Eleanor rose, unbelting her dressing gown and shrugging it off her shoulders, letting it slide down the slim, silken length of her body. Her hands rose to cup her breasts, still high and firm with youth. As she toyed delicately with her nipples, she took him in. He was young; claiming perhaps a score and five years at most. He was nobly-born, of that much she was certain; his clothing was fine and he spoke like an educated man. He was lean, the body under his satin doublet and breeches looked to be muscled and not at all given to fat. If he was Fereldan, he was no doubt a man of arms; their nobles were nearly all fighters of some greater or lesser skill. No doubt his palms had callouses from the hilt of a sword or dagger.

Her own callouses had been softened with balm and scoured away with pumice years ago.

All told, he had a pleasing appearance, not at all ill-favored. No, it shouldn't be hard to find desire for this one. Maker, it might even be fun. If he knew about the most valuable skills of the Antivan courtesans, he might just actually be knowledgeable enough to know what to do with one.

She imagined his body unclothed, the lean muscles, hardened by warfare, rippling beneath her hands. She imagined that narrow back flexing as he moved over her, within her. She imagined sucking on that full lower lip, imagined meeting those keen blue eyes at the moment of rapture, and she felt her body tighten in response, arousal beginning to build deep within her.

Gently, she pinched one nipple, her mouth falling open slightly in a gasp at that sweet hint of pain, and her eyes fluttered closed as her other hand trailed down her belly, sliding through the crisp curls at the apex of her thighs to dip between her folds, finding herself slick and ready. His eyes were intent upon her fingers, and she allowed herself a moment of professional vanity, withdrawing her hand to show him the glistening wetness upon it.

The Fereldan breathed deeply, smelling her, and without invitation took her hand in his and tasted the gleaming wetness upon her fingers. He only released her once he'd licked them clean.

"Hmm, no taste of olives or other oil," he remarked, studying her in an almost scholarly manner. "The tales aren't exaggerated, then?"

"No, ser, they are not." She did not tell him that if he had come to her later in the day, closer to the evening, she would indeed have been slick with olive oil, prepared for the night’s clientele. It was the only hope for feigning desire, not to mention avoiding discomfort, in a whore's routine.

"Continue," he urged, gesturing her toward the chaise.

Eleanor arranged herself upon it so that he could see the movements of her hands without displaying herself so completely as to appear vulgar. Then she closed her eyes, dismissing him from her sight if not from her imagination. He was, after all, as likely a candidate as any for an arousing fantasy. In point of fact, he was far better than many others she'd known in the year since the _doña_ had sold her virginity to one of the men on a list she kept of clientele interested in such rarities.

Eleanor didn't care to think of that night, and instead turned her thoughts back to the Fereldan. She felt her body immediately respond with another pang of warm desire and was surprised to realize she wanted him. That, indeed, was a rare treat, to actually crave one of the men who paid for her services. Kneading her breast with one hand, she collected the slick fluid of arousal from between her folds and began to gently caress the pearl of her pleasure, her teeth closing delicately over her bottom lip as she did so. She traced the lines she knew so well, the moist creases of her folds, the opening to her body, the hard knot that throbbed and ached for more pressure.

"Oh, Maker," she sighed, letting her head fall back. It was good. When had she begun neglecting this most basic tenet of her training, she wondered? When had she grown so unconcerned with her own desire that she'd stopped even trying to please herself? For that was the courtesan’s grace; the courtesan was not a wife duty-bound to conceive an heir, or a whore to feign desire for a few coppers. She was a lover and companion, entertainer and artisan. Beyond all else, pleasure was her art, and to truly know how to give pleasure, one must first know how to experience it. For this reason, that was the very first lesson taught to girls who would become courtesans; to learn their own bodies intimately and find what brought them pleasure.

Eleanor whimpered softly as her fingers stroked more urgently, moving her hips in time to the caress upon her bud, her body rocking ever so slightly. Her breathing came more rapidly, a frown of concentration creasing her brow as she fixated on the internal image of this unusual Fereldan man making love to her, matching her skill with his own. Closer, her release loomed, drawing low moans from her throat.

When her pleasure burst upon her, it did so with small shudders and gentle ripples that were no less genuine for being subdued. At length, her breathing calmed and awareness returned. She opened passion-glazed eyes to see the Fereldan staring at her, transfixed.

"Maker's breath!" he said softly. "Surely the very grace of Andraste herself could not rival such a beautiful display."

A slow but sincere smile curved Eleanor's lips, but faded as she remembered her determination to remain attached and unaffected by her life in this place. "I'm happy to have pleased you, _patrón,_ " she replied in a bored, habitual way.

"Don't do that," he snapped, scowling. "A woman as talented and intelligent as you are has no business mouthing such mindless, obsequious drivel as that in a place like this."

His words shamed her, but her pride struck back, tightening her lips and bringing a hint of anger to her tone. She sat up upon the chaise, pulling up her dressing gown to conceal herself as much as she could. "In a place like this, mindlessness is perhaps one's only defense against running mad."

Oh, Maker's blood, why had she told him that? If word got back to the _doña_ that Eleanor was complaining to the clientele about her work, she could quickly find herself sucking sailors' cocks in dirty dockside alleys for a copper apiece.

The Fereldan's vivid blue eyes were keen upon her. "You're unhappy here, then?" he asked.

"Happiness has nothing to do with it," she answered without inflection, refusing to meet his eyes. "This is my life and my work. I pray you, ser, plague me no more with questions best left unanswered."

The Fereldan looked as though he was on the verge of pressing forward with his questions, but then suddenly he nodded instead, he expression softening. "As you wish, _señorita,_ " he acquiesced with a hint of mockery in his tone. "Come, then, and show me what other skills set the famed courtesans of Antiva apart."

She did. It was quite pleasing, actually, to be able to use the arts she'd been trained to. Her normal clientele generally weren't connoisseurs of such artistry. They sought to brag that they'd spent an unreasonable amount of coin to lie with a trained courtesan, but cared little for the experience beyond the basic mechanics of coupling, a service they could buy from any whore. The Fereldan was such an appreciative recipient of her abilities that it urged her on to even more elaborate and creative applications of her training.

And there was pleasure. Maker, yes, such pleasure! He did not merely reciprocate, as though they were keeping score. Rather, he took the time to please himself by pleasing her, until it no longer mattered whose pleasure was actually being pursued, because it was all the same. It was passion the way it was meant to be shared, the way she had been taught to share it.

Afternoon passed into evening and then into night. A tray of supper was summoned, which they dug into voraciously, sitting nude and cross legged upon the rumpled bed. Somehow sensing the Fereldan was going to begin asking questions again, Eleanor made a preemptive strike and began to question him instead.

"How is it that a Fereldan nobleman comes to have studied the proscribed erotic texts?"

"What makes you think I've studied any texts at all?"

"No one performs cunnilingus using that particular technique without having first read _The Art of Passionate Love_ ," Eleanor chided. "The Maker doesn't allow it."

When he had stopped laughing, he replied, "My family's library boasts a number of Chantry-proscribed pieces of erotica, and I'm always on the lookout for more."

"Indeed? I might have expected such an answer from an Orlesian noble, but not Fereldan. In my youth, Fereldans were a rather staid and unadventurous lot. Has that changed since I left?"

The Fereldan sighed. "I suppose in some ways my sensibilities are quite Orlesian. For that matter, I might be a voluptuary even by their decadent standards. Pleasure is a hobby of mine, you might say."

"And how is it you came by these sensibilities?"

"Hmm," he paused, popping an olive in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. "I don't suppose I can rightly blame the war—my appetites were keen long before I saw my first battle. Once I discovered pleasure, there was no stopping me. But the war against the Orlesians certainly helped matters along. For some reason, the women who fought in the war seem to cope better with the horrors they saw; perhaps it's because they talk about it more. But the men seek other ways to deal with the things they'd rather forget. Many drown themselves in wine and ale or suck on dried madcap buttons until they lose their minds. I drowned myself in pleasure. The more atrocities I saw, the more acute my desires became, and the more I indulged them, the less haunted I was by the things I had seen. And so I indulged. In women, in men, in multiples of each flavor, in games of pain and mastery and subjugation. You'll find there's little I haven't tried at least once, given a willing partner of the appropriate age, and not much more I wouldn't be eager to try again."

Eleanor grimaced at the reminder of the war that had been fought to free her homeland, the very same conflict that had led her to Antiva in the first place. "You fought the Orlesians, then?" she asked carefully.

"Just about every man or woman old enough to hold a sword or draw a bowstring did. But I don't want to talk about that," he said quickly, and used her own trick against her, forestalling any more questions by asking one of his own.

As luck would have it, it was the very question she least wanted him to ask.

"So tell me, how does a Fereldan lass come to be trained as an Antivan courtesan?"

"By virtue of the very war you don't wish to discuss," she answered, hoping it would discourage him.

It didn't.

"How so?"

Sighing, Eleanor glowered at him and answered in a tight voice, "My father was a merchant in Amaranthine, dealing mostly in imported textiles from Nevarra and Tevinter, even Seheron. They have a remarkable material made from a plant called 'cotton' that they have only just begun to weave; it hasn't caught on yet, but he was certain one day it would due to its softness and comfort. His customers were some of the most notable dressmakers and tailors in Ferelden because of the quality of the fabrics he imported. If you were wealthy enough to afford finely-made clothing, it was very likely made from cloth he sold."

"Amaranthine, you say? What was his name?"

"Mac Dougal. Rìan Mac Dougal."

"That name sounds familiar. Yes, I remember. There was some talk among the minor nobility about a merchant named Mac Dougal, whose daughter possessed a considerable dowry that was going to make a wealthy man of some well-named but poorly-funded bann. You?" At her terse nod, he urged, "Go on."

"Father was a patriot, and threw in his lot with Queen Moira," Eleanor continued, willing her voice to not to quaver. "He had me trained to arms, thinking one day to marry me to a nobleman within the rebellion, and he channeled funds to the queen and acted as a conduit for covert correspondence. Arl Tarleton Howe found out, and had his assets seized and my father executed, though not before he managed to put myself and my mother on a ship bound for Antiva with what few coins we managed to grab before our escape. Father said he would meet us before the ship sailed, but in retrospect, I think he fully intended to stay behind and delay pursuit until we could depart."

The Fereldan nodded again. "Yes, I recall that; it was part of the purge of her supporters that took place when the queen was assassinated by Bann Ceorlic. It was said Howe's need for Mac Dougal's coin was his primary motivation in having him arrested, rather than any great loyalty to the Orlesians. Will it give you any comfort to know that I was there the day Tarleton Howe hanged at Harper's Ford?"

There was an expression on his face she couldn't read when he revealed that, something he was not saying, but she didn't have the heart to pursue it.

"I suppose it would," Eleanor murmured. "At any rate, my mother contracted an infection in her lungs when we crossed the Waking Sea and died shortly after we made port. Our last coins were spent on potions and herbs, but we hadn't the funds to hire a healing mage and the physician could do nothing for her. And so I was left, a girl just turned fourteen, with not even a copper to my name in a land where I barely spoke the language. The physician who treated my mother felt some sympathy for me and and so he took me to the _doña_ here at _La Caja de las Rosas_. I suppose he thought he was doing me a mercy, that I would be treated more gently here than if I tried to make my way on the streets or even in a less elite brothel."

"He was most assuredly not wrong in that. I’ve seen enough of such places to know," the Fereldan said softly, and Eleanor didn't dare meet his eyes, lest he should see the shine of tears in hers.

"Perhaps," she acknowledged. "When the _doña_ learned that I was educated and well-spoken, she advanced the funds to have me trained by a retired courtesan in that art, even though I was a bit older than most girls when they begin such training. She considered it an investment. Had I become a courtesan, paying her back would not have been an object. It... wasn't the future I had been raised to expect for myself, but retired courtesans often make advantageous marriages in the minor nobility or the upper merchant class. My only other skill was fighting and since women do not serve in the army here in Antiva, it was the closest thing I had to hope that I might someday achieve respectability."

"And after all that you turned out to have an horrid accent."

"Oh, no. _Yours_ is horrid. Mine is merely unpleasant to the cultured ear."

That made him laugh again, and Eleanor found herself smiling in response. He enjoyed it when she made fun of him, it seemed. The supper tray was set aside and pleasure once more became the object of their pursuit. When much later she sank down upon his chest, shaking and sweating in the aftermath of rapture, the Fereldan kissed her forehead with something astonishingly close to affection.

"Never did I imagine finding a woman so suited to my own appetites in a common brothel," he said in amazement, still breathless from his exertions. "I shall be here in Antiva City for some weeks. Seeing as you don't appear to care for your labors here in the brothel, I do hope you'll have no objections to being my companion for the duration of my stay."

Weeks. Weeks with a man who could match her own aptitude for pleasure. Weeks with a man who actually wanted to converse with her and not merely rut. Weeks with a man who appreciated her graces and wit.

For a moment she felt afraid. How much more difficult would it be to return to her life as a whore after he departed? Surely the despair would be just that much keener after he left.

Concerned by her hesitation, he spoke again. "Now that I see just how unworthy your surroundings are for one of your talents, I'm moved to make a different arrangement than the one I originally intended. I wish to provide you with funds enough to pay off your debt to the _doña_ and establish yourself in whatever occupation you think would best suit you. I hope you'll accept."

She grew tense, waiting for the hidden hook in the offer. "At what cost?" she asked guardedly, unable to entirely conceal her derision. "Am I to be your mistress?"

"A mistress halfway across Thedas would hardly do me any good," he snorted. "No, there is no cost. I should like you to consent to be my companion while I'm here, but my offer stands even if you refuse."

"You're discussing a considerable amount of coin. Retired courtesans charge a great deal to train up girls to the arts. It's more than I can hope to make as a whore in my lifetime."

"I come from a prosperous family," he shrugged. "I have the funds to spare."

"Establish myself in an occupation?" she mused. "I scarcely know what I would do. I cannot be a courtesan and without any renown as a courtesan myself, I cannot even be a teacher of the art. I was raised to be a nobleman's wife, and I suppose I could use the money as a dowry, but it would be hard to find a man of a suitable rank willing to take a wife who had been a common whore, without even the quasi-respectability of having been a courtesan. I could return to Fereldan, maybe, where women have more options, but it’s also possible I might find myself missing the chance to use my skills."

"If you'll spend the coming weeks with me, perhaps we might ponder your options together?" he pressed.

Eleanor looked at him and felt much as she had that day at the harbor at Amaranthine when she and her mother had boarded a ship bound for Antiva; knowing beyond a doubt that her life would never be the same again. Then, however, that knowledge had been fraught with terror. Now, it was filled with hope—which was in its own way also terrifying.

"Perhaps I ought to know your name," she said, stalling for time to order her thoughts.

"Bryce Cousland, Teyrn of Highever, at your service, Mistress Mac Dougal." He bowed his head politely, as though they were being introduced in a proper parlor and not entwined upon a bed in a brothel.

"Teyrn of Highever?" Eleanor gasped, pushing herself up off his chest. He clung to her a moment, loathe to let her move away, but eventually released her. "Maker's breath!"

"Does that make a difference?"

"No, I suppose not," she answered after a moment of confusion. "I simply... didn't expect to find myself in the company of the most powerful nobleman in Ferelden, much less entertaining such an offer from him."

"I shan't be the most powerful nobleman in Ferelden for long, if the new teyrn of Gwaren has his way," he replied with a frown. "The man's heroics during the rebellion and friendship with the king have given him considerable influence. He dislikes me because the Landsmeet nearly favored me to be king. He's made no secret of his disdain for my noble breeding and some of my ideas for Ferelden's future, either. Still," he added, pausing a moment for effect, "I have enough power to have ordered the execution of the Arl of Amaranthine."

Eleanor stared at him in amazement. " _You_ ordered Tarleton Howe hanged?"

"I did," he said with a slight smile. "And never have I been more gratified by that decision than at this moment."

"Then allow me to give you what little reward I may," she said, setting her shoulders. "I shall agree to your offer, and consent to be your companion while you are here in Antiva."

"Splendid!" His smile brightened. "Come. Let's get dressed and collect your things. I'll settle up with the _doña_ and we'll spend the night in the manor I've leased and not in this place."

Her heart racing with that terrifying thrill of hope, Eleanor did as he bade.  


* * *

  
 **9:02 Dragon — A Secret is Uncovered**

His pulse pounded and a cruel gleam lit Arl Rendon Howe's eyes as he considered the serving boy before him, reed-thin and shaking in fear. If he claimed sixteen years, the lad exaggerated by at least two. Being an elf, that meant he was barely larger than a human child.

When the _doña_ had seen Howe's eyes land on the boy, she'd immediately demanded an extra fee to cover any "accidental" damage. The elf was, after all, not a proper whore, but merely a servant who emptied chamberpots and ran errands for the clientele; he was not accustomed to such use. The serving boy had protested when the proprietress informed him that he would be expected to please the customer, but the _doña_ had threatened to dismiss him from his employment, and he'd complied after that.

He stripped when Howe commanded him to, as the arl locked the door of the pleasure chamber behind them. The _doña_ had been astute, putting them in a chamber far beyond one where other customers might hear what happened within; she knew her business well enough to recognize when a customer had brutality in mind.

Howe's mood was foul, though that did not fully explain his taste for inflicting suffering. _That_ had been born long ago, the first time he forced himself upon a little scullery maid in his father's keep. But his anger gave it a keener edge this time. He'd come to Antiva seeking lucrative shipping deals for the port of Amaranthine, hoping to replenish the coffers his father's extravagances had depleted, only to find that damned Bryce Cousland had been there months before and snapped up all the best contracts for Highever.

Howe ground his teeth in fury. Ever since the battle of White River during the rebellion, he'd found himself thwarted by Cousland over and over. He'd easily forgiven Cousland for ordering the execution of his father at Harper’s Ford. He'd borne no great love for his parent, and Tarleton Howe's death meant the arling fell to Rendon, offering him the chance to change Amaranthine’s allegiance to the Fereldan rebellion when it looked like they might actually succeed.

Afterward, they'd been companionable enough—Cousland and Howe and Arl Leonas Bryland—until White River. Cousland and Bryland hadn't cared for Howe's strategy for the battle and had argued with him for days about it. They blamed Howe for the loss of so many of their men, even though the king had decorated them all alike for their valor. And then after the next battle, Cousland had been repulsed when he discovered Howe using one of the female chevaliers they had managed to capture. He'd had the gall to scold Howe about behavior befitting a nobleman of his rank, and told him the chaos of warfare was no excuse for rape. As though the Orlesians weren't all wanton whores anyway!

Cousland claimed to be his friend, and yet Highever's wealth grew every day while Amaranthine languished and Howe's own home of Vigil's Keep crumbled in disrepair. Cousland's voice was being heard in the Landsmeet, making a strong case for moving on from the past and seeking a prosperous future for Ferelden, while Howe was ignored by everyone except the new Teyrn of Gwaren and a few minor banns. The glory Howe had thought would fall to him when the king decorated him after White River all seemed to be claimed by Cousland and Bryland instead.

"You... are powerful Fereldan, _sí_?" the serving boy asked in faltering Fereldan as he disrobed.

"Did I tell you to speak, whore?" Howe asked, but the boy didn't seem to understand.

"If you like... maybe take me away from here... like other Fereldan man did the _señorita, sí?_ "

Howe's hand flew out, intending to cuff the lad, but then the words registered and he grabbed the boy's pointed ear instead and dragged him close. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Fereldan man, very rich. He come many months ago, _sí_. He like a _señorita_. Paid the _doña_ and took her away. Some say he marry her."

Howe's hand fisted in the elven boy's pale hair. " _What was his name_?" he demanded, a red haze of fury clouding his vision.

" _Señor, por favor_! I do not know his name!" The boy cried out when Howe shook him like a mongrel mutt.

"What was her name, then?" he shouted in the boy's face.

"Eleanor! _Sí_! Eleanor! _Por favor_! Please, _señor!_ "

Howe flung the thin lad across the room into a wall and was upon him while he was still dazed from the impact. He hardly had time to relish the boy's screams, so intense was his triumphant rage. He forced himself into the lad's tight, resisting body, coming almost immediately, and then pummeled the elf until he was erect once more and the boy nothing more than a sobbing, bloody mess. He fucked him again, staring into the boy's blood-covered face, watching the storm-gray eyes bulge as Howe's hands wrapped around his throat and began to squeeze.

Howe climaxed as he heard the elven lad's windpipe crunch beneath the pressure of his thumbs, thrusting a few final times into the warm corpse. Then he rose, feeling almost calm, and began to wash the blood from his body.

So, Bryce Cousland's charming new bride, the Fereldan lass whom he claimed was driven from her home all the way to Antiva by Howe's own father, was nothing but a common whore. This information would have to be handled carefully, but whispered in the right ears, it might slow Cousland's rise in prominence and win back some credibility for the Howes.

Smiling, Howe dressed and left the blood-splattered chamber to settle his account with the _doña_.

**Author's Note:**

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> 
> To read the full _Elysium_ author's notes, as well as the work that gave birth to _Elysium_ and other associated and standalone works, please visit [Elysium-fic at Dreamwidth](http://elysium-fic.dreamwidth.org).
> 
>  **Dragon Age: Origins and associated content belong to EA and Bioware. I am making no money from their use.**


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